On being alone
by cagayake
Summary: Romano contemplates his feelings on being alone and without Spain. A lot of thinking going on here.


_Tick, tick, tick_ went the clock on the wall, the irritating little noises so painfully far apart that Romano felt a headache coming on. And with that, anger was sure to follow and the offending object would be thrown from the window. He clenched his fist in frustration, ran the other fingers through his hair, and tore his eyes away to focus on something else.

Coffee was a good distracter. Didn't caffeine worsen headaches? Well, damn it, Romano didn't fucking _care_. Thank god this hotel room came with a machine, although it was that instant kind that just didn't really cut it for his standards. Yeah, his country may be in a little difficulty right now but he did still know _quality_. This coffee did seem to have the desired effect, though- Romano felt his chest unclench a little and breathing became easier. God, was he sick? No, just a little panicky for some reason and he just fucking wanted someone to come back already! It was too quiet, much too quiet- only the flickers of raindrops hitting windows, and they had begun to annoy him already.

He called Veneziano first. No, he was just checking in like a responsible brother should! That idiot had been hanging out with the potato bastard way too much for Romano's liking- and god knows what they were up to now in that room of theirs. (Before you say anything, though, the fact that Romano was sharing with Spain was completely different- completely!).

Anyway, back to calling his useless brother. The phone rang, and rang, until Romano had counted to 17 and gave up. He attempted Belgium, too, but no answer- why couldn't someone just pick up their fucking phone?

Of course, the individual that he most wanted to speak to had left his phone on the coffee table. It sat there, looking a little outdated and quite pathetic. Why was Spain so _useless_? Romano tugged at his collar nervously, unbuttoning his stiff shirt a little way down with messy fingers- realised he went too far and did a couple up again. He stood up. Sat down. Stood up again, walked around the coffee table. The next half-hour passed very much the same, full of pacing, looking around, making more coffee, and well, Romano couldn't even clearly remember half of it. Nothing of significance happened.

Then Romano's phone started to ring. He jumped- grabbed it- composed himself. It was Veneziano.

"What do you want?"

"Eh? Lovino, you just called me seven times!" Veneziano sounded worried, and it was genuine.

"I did? It must have been a mistake…" A pause. "What are you doing anyway? Are you with that fucking potato again?"

"Ooh, well we just went out to this really nice restaurant- German actually, you wouldn't have thought it would you? Ludwig was so funny, oh, he knew all about the food, and I didn't understand but he said something about-"

Listening to Veneziano talking about Germany was not making him feel better in the slightest. Well, it turned the distress into just stress, and then anger. That could be considered a development, but not really in the right direction. Romano sighed heavily into the phone, feeling his closed eyes straining in their sockets.

"Lovino, what's wrong? Is Antonio there?"

"No. No he's not."

"Why not?"

Stupid questions like these were one of the (many) reasons why Romano often questioned why he even bothered with his brother. Alright, so it was a perfectly reasonable question, but Veneziano should be able to know without asking, damn it!

"I don't fucking- _know_." Romano choked out that last word, feeling his throat becoming dry.

"Do you want me to come to your room, Lovino?" Veneziano asked after a small moment. It was times like these that (although he would never admit it) Romano was very grateful.

"No. Just don't do anything fucking stupid, okay?" Romano hung up before Veneziano could get another word in.

The short conversation had been (surprisingly) calming to partake in (even though they were talking about Germany, hearing his brother's voice had been a reassurance), but now just added to the frustration. He buried his face in his hands; rubbed his forehead. It was time to get to the problem- the fact that Spain was not currently here. The pristine, perfectly straightened (except where Romano had thrown his belongings or moved things around) room was too quiet and empty. Yes, it was modern, sleek, attractive- all of these attributes Romano liked and appreciated, and he _was _used to them. So- fucking hell- what was wrong with this?

He lay on the sofa. It was comfortable- not too hard like hotel furniture often is. Yes, he was fucking stressed, but not so much that he couldn't sleep- don't mistake him for a little child (even if he did cry and whine sometimes- make that often- not that he would ever admit it)! Without bothering to get up, Romano fell into a doze with the yellow lights still warm, the raindrops dancing together on the windowpane between open curtains. The cushions were soft enough and oh- it was luxuriously calm. But still something- or rather someone- was missing. Part of Romano (wherever that silly, nostalgic, attached part of him was hidden, for only certain eyes to unlock and see) longed for noise, imperfection, emotions. Between him and Spain there was more than enough of those to go round.

Romano's dreams- if they could be called that, for he was still half awake and half conscious (in that difficult state in which you cannot tell what is reality and what is your imagination)- were full of confusion, distress, and of course, Spain. What if he never came back-?

When Romano awoke from his half-sleep, the lights were still on, it was still raining, and Spain had still not returned. It was one twenty in the morning- not late at all, by Spain's standards. So yes, Romano was used to waiting through nights while the bad friends trio went out and partied, drank, flirted with girls, or whatever else it was that they got up to in the early hours of the morning. He was used to it indeed- but he hated it, held onto Spain (quite literally) until the trio became a duo and Romano and his former boss would spend the evening together, not necessarily doing anything more than lounging around and perhaps arguing if Romano felt in a particularly bad mood that day.

Those days, nights, moments of simple perfection could not be completely replaced by luxury and loneliness, no matter how hard Romano tried, and no matter how much he distanced himself from everyone. He was disagreeable, yes, and simply could not _stand_ the company of many (that was their fault for being so obnoxious or substandard!).

But there were those individuals who knew him and who he knew, who accepted and loved him and accepted his silent love in return. Romano, although he hated to admit it, depended on others- it was simply in his history. He probably could survive alone- but not without difficulty and not without loneliness.

Suddenly the lock on the door was turning, there was fumbling of cards, or keys, or card-keys, or whatever it was they were using- Romano didn't care.

"Where the fuck have you been?" He yelled down the corridor as soon as the door was open. It was a natural reflex. His mind was too preoccupied with the figure standing before him- a bit too scruffy for this hotel, smelling a little of alcohol, cheeks red, hair tousled, out of breath.

"Ooh, Lovinito! I thought you'd be pleased to see me!" Spain walked past him and laid himself messily over the couch, kicking off his shoes. "I left Francis and Gilbert just to come back early for yoouu". He held his arms out wide in that annoying (cute) way and Romano just couldn't say no.

For the first time in a long while- and he could never explain why it did or didn't happen- no words (taken to mean no insults, abuse, or raised voice) came from Romano's lips, only a kind of muffled unspecific grumble while his face was buried in Spain's chest. He smelled of alcohol, a little of cigarettes, but most of all he smelled of _himself_- that comforting scent that no night out could fully cover up. It was nothing in particular, but memories, warmth, comfort.

"Did you really miss me that much, Lovino?" Spain was touching just below his eyes- slightly course fingers still as gentle as they were when Romano was young- and oh god fucking no- there were tears, just a few, tears of frustration and relief. It's funny how they often come out afterwards.

"Fuck off, Antonio… I'm just tired."

"Remember when I used to go away and leave you in that big house? When I came back, sometimes you used to burst into tears!" Spain ignored him and pinched his cheeks, "Oh Lovinito, you're still exactly the same!" He planted a kiss on Romano's forehead. "And remember the day when it had been years, and you just grabbed my leg and wouldn't let go?"

Romano mumbled into Spain's shirt, closing his eyes. He did remember those days- in the grand, decorated halls of Spain's mansions, the warm colours with light pouring in through the windows and a general air of easiness. But of course it was not always easy. There was politics, and when Spain himself was absent, Romano was left with only the tidying and listening to strangers speaking in voices that, for a while, he didn't fully understand. No one would comfort him with the same genuine smile, or cared much except to make him stop crying. It was lonely. It was lonely without Spain. And he hadn't grown out of it.

They went to bed together. Romano could tell that Spain was too tired- and a little too intoxicated- to do anything more than kisses. But kisses were enough; just lying together in the bed under the single white sheet was enough. He reached out and gripped his former boss'- his lover's- hand. It was warm, and when Romano released his grip a little the fingers stroked his own. He mumbled.

"Antonio, you jerk, don't leave me alone so often. I get… bored."

"You need to learn to grow up, Lovino", the words came back to him in the dark, but they were laughing and filled the room.

"I _am _grown up! Don't patronise me!"

"I'm kidding Lovino," Spain pulled out syllables, teasing and loving at the same time. "Don't worry, I'll come back for you every time."

The warm light was now off, the rain had stopped and the curtains were drawn. Romano gripped Spain's hand in the darkness, and was pulled into an embrace. He felt gentle lips on his forehead, breath on his face, the presence of another next to him. He could deny it as much as he liked, and sure there were exceptions (like when he was really angry, or just needed space- which did admittedly happen a lot), but Romano could never stand to be alone for too long.


End file.
